


What's to Come

by why_me_why_not



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_me_why_not/pseuds/why_me_why_not
Summary: It's porn. Why do you need a summary? Ok, fine. Dean and Sam are on a hunt and guess what? Sex ensues. (warning for alternating POVs)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wendy, cowritten with De (who is not on AO3, follows Happy Birthday, Sammy, but can be read alone. Originally posted May 2006.

The bruises on Sammy's wrists are a fading greenish-brown hue now, not nearly as pretty as they were when they showed red and purple, but Dean can still close his eyes and _see_ it. It's a turn on, that ownership... the fact that Sammy's not so much willing as he is ready. Always ready for a good challenge.

This obsessing -- well, Dean wouldn't be doing it except they've been in the public library of Salem all day. Dean tries to look through old newspaper clippings while Sammy's on his laptop, searching the local missing persons database for any connection to their current mystery, a string of missing boys, and every time he gets into the research, really dives into it, he pulls his sleeves up without thinking.

Dean's eyes always catch it. Always.

+++

Sam glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye. He knows where Dean's looking; he's been doing it all afternoon. Sam tries to focus on the words on the screen of his laptop, but he's already reread the same section three times. He's not sure why he's having such a hard time concentrating; his first semester at Stanford he had roomed with this guy from Michigan who had thought it would be a good idea to invite people back to their dorm to party every damn night. Sam had quickly learned to tune them out, and in the time that followed had perfected the art of studying amidst chaos. But that was friends and beer and loud music, not Dean. And Dean keeps pulling Sam's attention away from the websites he's browsing. Not that he's found anything worthwhile, but that's not the point. Sam can think of several ways he'd rather be spending his time, but this job is dragging on, and after all day in the library, they still haven't found a damn thing.

But this -- the way Dean shifts in his seat every time Sam reveals his wrists -- could prove interesting.

+++

He's not sure, but he could swear that Sammy's doing it on purpose now. Every few minutes, when his sleeves start to slide down and Dean thinks he can finally start to concentrate on these fifty-year-old articles, Sam'll push them up again. He shakes his head at the thought; Sam would know better than to tease Dean. That would be like dangling a piece of raw meat in front of a lion, and Sam's a smart kid. After all, he was a pre-law major and shit… and he's rubbing his wrist now. Nothing unusual about it, just... Dean has this urge to remind Sammy how he got those bruises.

Frustrated, with the searching and his brother, Dean walks over to where Sam sits in front of his laptop and leans over his shoulder. "Finding anything interesting, trusty geekboy sidekick?"

+++

_If you only knew_ , thinks Sam. There is definitely _something_ interesting in the library, but it sure as shit isn't on his laptop. With a sigh, he leans back a little, pressing just slightly up against Dean, wondering just when it was exactly that Dean's invasion of his personal space went from annoying to enticing.

"No, not really. Lot of dead ends." Sam's running the fingers of one hand around the wrist of the other, lightly tracing the bruises there. It's an absent-minded gesture, one that Sam has caught himself doing more than once recently. He thinks sometimes that it's wrong to like them, to relish the reminder of what caused them, but more often he thinks it's wrong that they're fading so quickly.

Sam slides his sleeves back down, hiding the marks. He figures he has to if he really wants his brother's attention tuned to what they're supposed to be researching. "What about you, any luck?"

+++

Dean reluctantly moves back when Sam presses up to him. It's hard, takes nearly all of the willpower he can muster, and he rubs his head as Sam fingers the fading bruise. At this rate, they'll have wasted the entire day in the library with nothing to show for it. It's almost a relief when Sam pushes his sleeves down, like the fog around his brain fades a little and he can see something beyond the flashes of memory from the other night.

_But, fuck! The other night!_ He sighs louder than he intended to.

"Nothing much in the papers. A mention or two of disappearances, but there aren't any real connections to any of them." It's true, about the disappearances, but Dean's not really sure if they connect or not. He hasn't really had the chance to focus on the details because Sam keeps moving the sleeves of his shirt.

What he really wants to do is shut Sam's laptop, back him up, lay him out over the table and mark him again. Bright purples and reds and blues to clash with the green and brown of his clothing. Dean clears his throat as he walks back over to the desk where dozens of old articles are spread out and tries, once again, to focus on finding some clue. Something other than _Sammy_.

+++

 

Sam doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Dean returns to his own spot. How unfair is it that Dean had a clear view of him this whole time, but he could only see Dean if he turned his head and made it obvious that his attention wasn't on the research?

Sam waits for Dean to sit down and pick up one of the clippings. Telling himself he needs to get up for a minute and stretch anyway, he pushes up his sleeves once more as walks over to his brother. He lays one hand on the back of Dean's chair and leans closer than is probably necessary, his other hand coming to rest beside Dean's on the table. He doesn't say anything at first, just stands there.

"You've gone through all of these? And made notes of the disappearances, in case we find a connection later?" Sam knows Dean has; he's only asking so he can have something to say. Or whisper, actually, because it is a library after all, and if Dean's breathing seems to speed up the slightest bit when the hushed words slide over him -- or maybe just from Sam standing so close -- then that's all the better. "Everything newer than this we can probably access on the web, or we can come back tomorrow if we need to."

+++

Dean doesn't move his head but keeps his eyes fixed on Sam's hand, just inches from his own. The bruise is the most visible on the side of his wrist, where the cuffs must have dug in really deep. Just before he's ready to move his hand, slide it up next to Sammy's, his brother speaks. Dean's only just able to hide the chills that run down his back when Sam's low whisper blows across his ear.

Instead, he looks up and straight at the librarian -- creepy old bat -- that's been staring at them since they arrived… Dean looks at his watch, four hours ago. They've been in this godforsaken library for four hours, Dean's got pieces of scrap paper strewn everywhere and his stomach is grumbling.

"Yeah. I wrote down everything from 1950 to 1978; names, dates, place of disappearance and suspects." He starts picking up the pieces and trying to keep his distance. Sam's either not aware of the war raging in his mind or he's dutifully ignoring it… possibly even pushing the issue. _Jerk_.

"Lunch, then?" asks Dean as he attempts to back the chair up. Sam doesn't look happy to move, but he does anyway. "There's a dive diner a few miles back; we could go look through the notes?" Food and fresh air seem like a good idea to Dean. Anything to get out of the staleness of the musty old books and that disturbing old woman.

+++

Even though he reluctantly moved so Dean could push back his chair, Sam is still standing close. It's not quite close enough to make him seem defiant or difficult, but he's still thinking maybe he shouldn't push the issue. Not yet, anyway. He's still working out the rules to this game, but he thinks he'd be overstepping his bounds if he pressed his brother up against the nearest wall of shelving and lost himself in the taste of Dean.

No, for all the grief Dean gives him about being a control freak, Dean is just as bad as he is. Restraint and self-control aren't really words that are associated with Dean most of the time, but he likes to believe he is the one calling the shots. Then again, there have been times when Dean has shown the patience of a saint when they've been out on a hunt. Sam's seen him stare down a demon with perfect calm and stillness, something Sam has never been able to accomplish. It's not really something he can learn. Sam wonders what it would take, how far Dean will let himself be pushed before he snaps.

Sam's fingers brush against Dean's as he helps gather up the rest of the scattered articles. Then Sam slides his hand into Dean's pocket, fishing out the keys to the Impala and trying not to grin when Dean goes stock-still. "I'm driving." He packs up his laptop while Dean goes to return the articles they've borrowed and is halfway to the door when Dean catches up to him.

+++

Dean cocks his head with a chuckle as he watches Sam walking away, dangling the keys out and looking like a kid on Christmas day. It could be worth it to let Sam drive, but then again… Running to catch up with Sam, he pulls the keys out of his hand. "Over my dead body." And just as Sam's about ready to snatch the keys back, Dean closes his hand around them and shoves his hand down his pants, temporarily rendering the keys 'unreachable'. He hopes.

The walk to the Impala isn't long, but the silence stretches out between them unnervingly and Dean has never been one for quiet time, so he reaches over and playfully slugs Sam's arm. He considers letting Sam drive for all of three seconds.

"You know, if you want to drive, you just have to get the keys," he says with a sly grin as he grabs the crotch of his jeans. There's a distinct jingling noise along with Dean's chuckling as they stop just next to the car. Sam looks like he'll reach for them; challenging him, riling him up was always Dean's favorite pastime, but they're in the middle of this small town and he's also sure that the locals wouldn't enjoy seeing a man rifling through another man's pants, even if it was just for keys. The last thing he wants is some crazy fuck following them around with shotguns and crucifixes and torches shouting to the heavens about sins and damnation. Dean's got enough artillery in the trunk to supply a good lynch mob if they got it in their minds to ransack the Impala and he'd really rather not test Sam enough to see if the locals have it in them. Besides, the Impala, she's his baby.

He pushes away from the car and reaches in his pants to fish out the keys, finding them easily and sliding into the driver's side. After a moment, when Sam's not moving, he rolls down the window. "You comin', Sammy?"

+++

Sam rolls his eyes and walks around to slide into the passenger seat, ignoring the smirk his brother flashes at him. Dean's been letting him drive more and more these days, even though he still bitches about Sam's driving and Sam's choice of music -- apparently the driver could only pick the music if the driver happened to be Dean. But this little display wasn't about the car, and Sam knows it.

Normally he likes to watch Dean drive: the childish grin when the Impala rumbles to life, the way he slides his hands along the wheel. The easy and familiar way he handles the control of power. Right now, however, a glint of light catches his eye, and his attention is drawn to the keys that dangle from the ignition, one tiny silver one in particular.

He reaches over, skimming his fingers over the top of Dean's thigh in passing before lifting the key. "Is there a reason you have this on your key ring?"

Dean doesn't answer, and Sam moves back to his own side of the car with a slight laugh. It's only a few short minutes between the library and the diner, and Sam wishes Dean would say something to fill the silence. Something to keep him from focusing on the key, which, of course, leads him back to rubbing his wrist again. If Dean has the key, carries it with him, does that mean the handcuffs are easy to get to as well, or that he plans on using them again? Sam shifts in his seat, trying to focus on the quaint storefronts passing by. But all he can think about are the memories of cool metal and heated skin and _ohmyfuck_ Dean that make him want to lean across the seat, slide his hand up Dean's thigh, and tell him to turn the car back toward the motel instead...

+++

Sam's not very good at surreptitious glances, or else he's just not trying anymore. Dean's counted at least six times that Sam's looked away from the passing scenery outside to his lap or that general vicinity in just as many blocks.

It's hard not to smile as he realizes what it is that has Sammy's attention. _Ah, the key_ , he thinks, because Dean doesn't trust his voice to come out steady. There's something, some force or pull that makes Dean want to move his leg up -- take his foot off the gas and make some sort of contact with Sam. And the mention of the key twists something around in his chest and stomach, making it hard to tell if they haven't melted into one from the fire building in his lap.

The cuffs are in the trunk, and not for the first time, Dean wishes they were in his pocket because he's wanted to chain Sam to something - himself or the impala or that chair in the library. Right now, he wants to chain Sammy to his steering wheel, in the six-inch space on the bottom that hovers less than that above the crotch of his jeans.

He'd talk, just to fill the emptiness, but again... he can't trust his voice not to sound like it belongs to a twelve-year-old (it was enough actually being twelve, Dean doesn't care to repeat that year), and so he just heaves a heavy sigh. Sam's on the other side of the car again, looking farther away than ever by not looking at Dean. Raging -- letting out the loudest guttural _screamingmoan_ of frustration seems like a good idea. So does jerking off, or better yet... jerking Sam off.

He's relieved when they finally get to the mom and pop diner, and Dean exits the car in a flash, leaving Sam sitting there for several moments. Upon reaching the door, he turns around and flashes Sam a look that says "On with it boy!" and pushes it open.

+++

Sam hurries to catch up with his brother and pretends it's the momentum and the sudden stop that makes him run into Dean. He ignores the glare it earns him and keeps his hand resting where it landed on Dean's back. Looking around the small diner, he realizes what it is that has made Dean stop just inside the door: all the seats at the counter and the few tables in the place are occupied, despite the fact the lunch rush should be over. That just leaves the booths lining the walls, and it's been years since they could fit comfortably in a booth. With a grin, Sam gives Dean a push towards the nearest open one. It takes a minute to sort out whose feet go where, and even then they're still practically on top of each other under the table because there's nowhere near enough room. Sam's body reacts to just how close they are now, a distinct change from how apart they were in the library, and he starts to shift in the seat to get more comfortable until he realizes that every time he moves, his leg is sliding against Dean's. Apparently Dean realizes this too because he's shooting Sam looks that say 'Stop it' and hold promises or threats, depending on how Sam takes them. Sam reaches under the table and runs his hand back and forth over Dean's thigh, a look of innocence on his face when the waitress comes over to get their drink orders -- Sam almost orders a beer even though it's way too early in the day for it and settles for tea instead -- and gives them menus. Sam looks for something on there that won't cause an instant heart attack and finally just picks at random because with Dean sitting so close, nothing else is going to appeal, but (he hopes) he'll need the energy later so he'd better eat now.

Dean's hand is suddenly on his under the table, stilling his movement, and Sam winks at his brother before twisting his hand so that Dean's fingers are around his wrist, falling in a perfect circle over the handcuff marks. Sam knows Dean's just as aware of exactly where they are as he is. He'd be surprised if both of them didn't have the bruises memorized by now. He slides his leg against Dean's one last time, smirking. There's only so much Dean will do to him in public -- he thinks -- so the most he's worried about is Dean slapping his hand under the table or berating him in a hushed whisper, which would have the complete opposite effect of calming him down.

+++

_If Sam doesn't stop with rubbing his leg against mine_... Dean tries to think of something threatening. He's bordering on furious because now he's thinking about it -- really thinking about Sam's leg sliding against his and how much better it would feel if there wasn't denim between them. The scowling looks he's shooting Sam seem to be doing nothing, save maybe egging him on further, and Sam... His hand is on Dean's leg and Dean doesn't squirm, though he wants to. His jeans are too tight now, and he wants to pull Sam across the table by the collar of his shirt and... what? He's past wanting to kiss Sam, past wanting to make Sam feel the way he does now. Biting seems like a promising idea, digging his teeth into Sam's lip and listening to him scream and moan. Possibly bruising him, drawing blood... Dean shivers at that thought as he turns his face to a smile at the waitress coming over.

She asks for their drink orders and Dean wonders why Sam's stalling. "Water. And I'll have a burger and fries," he says, jumping the gun. He doesn't look at the menu, just smiles at the waitress until she leaves because Sam's hand is still on his fucking leg and that's just too much for Dean. They're in the middle of a crowded diner in one of the smallest towns on the east coast and Sam...

When he's had enough of the furtive touching, Dean reaches under the table to smack Sam's hand away, or to possibly crush his hand and teach him a lesson, but Sam twists his hand and then Dean's gripping his wrist. Testing it, he squeezes and waits for Sam to wince. When he smirks instead and drags his leg up Dean's again, Dean growls low and quietly in his throat, not trusting his voice or his brain to provide him with words other than, 'If you don't stop, Jesus Sammy, I'm going to haul you into the dingy bathroom and fuck you into next Tuesday.' But just that thought makes his dick throb, and he thinks if he manages to get out of this situation unscathed, Sam will be in for it anyway.

The food comes minutes later as a welcome distraction. Sam has to use both hands to eat, and in a moment of ingenuity, Dean steps on both of Sam's feet to keep him from rubbing up against him any more. But he thinks he can feel Sam wiggling his toes in his shoes, and every few bites, Sam looks up at him with this tiny smile curling the edge of lip. Halfway through lunch, Dean has to stop looking because he wouldn't be able to live it down if Sam figures out that every time he opens his mouth, Dean imagines something else being put in there.

+++

Sam has a hard time controlling his amusement. Something he's done -- or maybe the combination of things -- seems to have gotten to Dean. But Sam's learned from the best (Dean is the consummate tease) so he's only putting that knowledge to good use.

Dean's stepping on his feet, keeping him from moving his legs, and if he weren't so very aware that Dean is definitely a full grown man, he'd wonder at the childishness and levity of it. But there's nothing light in the way Dean's feet are pressing on his, and Sam has to wriggle his toes to keep the feeling in them. Still, it's nice to know he's not the only one affected by whatever is going on between them.

Sam's almost glad Dean's eating just as silently as he is; he couldn't concentrate on the job if he wanted to, and he thinks that even if he could focus on Dean's words rather than just the rise and fall of his voice, he'd still hear the innuendo Dean probably doesn't really mean. Besides, he has enough on his mind at the moment, what with the way his wrist is still tingling where Dean put pressure on the bruises and Sam _liked_ it more than he should have, and he's starting to think there's something wrong with him (other than the fact that fucking his _brother_ is his every other thought) because he _wanted_ Dean to press harder, wanted to feel it.

Sam makes sure both his hands are occupied above the table because he doesn't trust what the hell he'll do if they're not. It would be so easy to slide one of them under the table to the button and zip on Dean's jeans... he already knows Dean's as hard as he is but that doesn't dampen the desire to confirm it. Of course, he knows he wouldn't be able to stop there, but if he could move his leg just so, whatever they were doing under the table would be blocked from view of everyone else. A quick handjob is all well and good, and there was that time in Duluth with the weresheep incident when they'd gotten stuck talking to these furies for like, three hours, who were convinced they could trace the futures of the Winchester family three generations into the future, and Sam had taken it upon himself to accidentally on purpose drop his napkin beneath the table so many times that, well, you get the idea, and handjobs, great things on all accounts, but Sam has something else in mind that doesn't involve the overwhelming stench of a heart attack being fried up. That's not what Sam wants though; no, he's not really in the mood for a quick handjob under the table of some nameless diner. He wants Dean to lose control, he wants both of them naked and hungry, hot and fast, and he'll be damned if he doesn't want to earn some more bruises, maybe mark Dean with a few of his own...

And it's a good thing Dean's not looking at him anymore because then he'd know that Sam's stopped eating, which means he'll do that thing where he tries to find a subtle way to worry about Sam and fails miserably. Unless he realizes the real reason Sam's not eating. Sam's pretty damn sure that Dean can read his mind from time to time, and he's not certain if he wants this to be one of those times. Sam's supposed to be the one with freaky psychic powers, but Dean has this way of knowing what Sam's thinking even before Sam knows himself. It's not always a bad thing -- more than once it meant that Dean picked up on Sam's slide into a mood and argued him out of it before he ever really got started -- and it's dead useful on hunts, but right now... Dean also seems to be able to tell exactly what Sam wants, and how far he can push before Sam begs. If Dean knew what Sam was thinking, he'd definitely have the upper hand.

Suddenly everything seems too much -- too close -- for Sam, the low hum of the conversations around them, the smell of the crappy food, the physical proximity of Dean. The clatter of Sam's plate when he pushes it away breaks the veil of silence over their table. "I'm done."

+++

Dean practically jumps with the clatter Sam's making and gives him an odd look that just says 'so?'

"Thanks for that public service announcement, Sammy." Dean laughs to take the edge off his words. It's probably a little sarcastic and biting, but then Sam probably doesn't expect much less from him, by the rolling of his eyes and that stupid smirk. There's only so much Dean can take and he's hovering there, on the edge, and the more Sam looks at him with that cock-sure and amused smile, the more Dean wants to wipe it off his face. Instead, he reaches for his wallet to pay the check, and on the way back to the table stops to press down on his burgeoning erection, trying not to gasp at the tingling feeling that just pressing his palm to it gives him. He wants more than his palm, more than even Sammy's palm. He starts thinking about tongues and teeth and hot warmth, and he swallows hard.

It's too easy to press down a little harder on Sam's feet as he wiggles his toes again before releasing them and standing. It's a rare occasion that Dean pays with cash, but he can't stand to spend another minute in this diner, across the table from Sam and feeling like the entire place is just watching him. Like they're waiting for him to do something completely out of some stupid newspaper stand cheap romance novel and Dean is never cheaply romantic. Hell, he's been romantic all of two times and frankly it wasn't worth the effort. He doesn't think about the fact that he's been practically standing on Sam's feet for the past thirty minutes, just says, "Let's go," and stands to walk out the door. But Sam's not fast behind him and he turns in time to see Sam shifting out of the booth uncomfortably. He tries not to laugh, but it just makes him look smug.

"All right?" Dean asks, knowing the answer but wanting to hear if Sam will tell him what he's feeling -- what he's really feeling.

+++

"What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Bastard. What does Dean expect him to say? Sam doesn't think the truth would go over so well with their current audience. _No, I'm not all right. You've been just close enough for me not to touch all day, and the frustration's either gonna kill me or push me to give these people a show they'll never forget. And I can't feel my toes!_

Okay, so Sam's a bit dramatic sometimes, but right now his clearest thought is whether he can get away with blowing Dean in the parking lot. Hell, at this point he'd let Dean fuck him on the hood of the Impala as long as they could both get off before they got arrested.

Sam makes sure there's some distance between him and Dean as he follows his brother out to the car. The job they're on -- there's been a pattern of sorts, and if it keeps up they have three days before the next disappearance. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start sorting it out, right?

When they reach the car, he says, "Dean, I think I read something in one of our books that might help us, but I'm not sure and the book's with my stuff back at the motel. How 'bout we just head back there?"

+++

Dean just nods at him, carefully and coolly. _More research. Great._ Dean really forces himself not to look disappointed as he slides into the driver's seat and turns the key. It's a quiet, short drive back to the motel, and listening to the sound of Sam inhaling makes him want to see if he can make Sam breathe differently. He stops himself short of reaching over and touching Sam's leg, instead reaching between his legs to the glove compartment to find a cassette tape. _Sweet Child O' Mine_ plays quietly for just a minute or two, and they're at the motel. Dean pulls the articles and notes out of his pocket as they walk in the door and spreads them out on the table with a sigh. He's tired of this research. He's tired and restless and there's a part of him that feels like it's going to explode, and that doesn't count the hard on he's trying to ignore. That has been a problem for a while. An excruciatingly long while.

_Fuck_. He wants to climb the walls, tear the place apart, or perhaps tear Sammy apart. Whether or not Sam was intentionally testing him, he isn't sure, but he can't take much more. He shuffles through the articles, matching up the ones that their father has already recorded in his journal and adding notes about the possible things he could've missed. But let's face it; if Dean found it then it's probably a dead giveaway that Dad found it too.

He can't focus any longer. The tension in the air is stifling and he just needs something, but Sam... he's a good boy. He's looking in his books... he would find the answer. So Dean gets up from the table and walks past Sam silently, heading to the bathroom. Maybe a long hot shower would do the trick, or maybe a really short cold one is what he needs. Either way, at least in the bathroom he could try to relieve some of the aching in his cock he has been failing to ignore all day.

+++

Sam glances up when Dean passes him. He's almost tired of this game, of both of them pretending and waiting for the other to give in first. Just the mental image of Dean in the shower -- wet and naked and touching himself -- is hot enough that Sam bites his lip to keep from groaning out loud. Still, a slight noise escapes and Dean looks at him sharply.

"What's that, Sammy?"

"Um... come here a sec."

Dean rolls his eyes and doesn't move from his spot at the bathroom door. "Dude, the job and the research -- it's not going anywhere. Show me when I get out."

The only thing Sam wants to research is how quickly he can get Dean out of his jeans.

"Seriously, man, just for a second." Sam flashes his best puppy dog look at his brother, hoping the effect's not ruined by the hunger he knows is reflected in his eyes. Something makes Dean move, though, so it's all good, but he stops just barely inside Sam's reach. "Dean..."

Some of Dean's looks are easy to read, and this is one of them, the "What do you want, Sammy?" look that's a mix of indulgence and impatience. If there weren't all these unwritten rules that Sam doesn't know, invisible lines he's too cautious to cross, maybe he'd blurt out any one of the million things he wants right now, but _Dean_ just about sums it up. And with Dean _finally_ close enough to touch, and they're finally alone, Sam doesn't trust his tongue not to betray him with begging or demands.

Sam reaches out and slides his hand along the denim that's pulled tight across Dean's thigh before hooking his finger through Dean's belt loop and pulling him closer.

+++

Dean hears his brother saying, "Um... come here a sec," just as he's reaching the bathroom. He's frustrated and he's fucking horny and all he really wants to do is relieve the urge to bend Sam over the table and fuck him senseless. It's been there all day, in the library, at the diner and now… and Dean's really on a short thread.

"Dude, the job and the research -- it's not going anywhere. Show me when I get out." He knows that his voice sounds clipped and that Sam probably has an idea about why he's going to the bathroom anyway, but if Sam's trying to block him, or torture him or tease him, Dean's not in the mood. He's had enough for one day.

"Seriously, man, just for a second." Sam actually looks hard pressed not to say anything else and Dean doesn't want to laugh, doesn't want to kill the mood because he's seen that flicker in Sam's eyes before. He knows what's coming, he knows what Sammy wants. "Dean..." Sam's practically begging for it and Dean just raises an eyebrow.

_What do you want, Sammy_? As if he even has to ask, and he doesn't. It's clear by the look on his face and by the little noise that Sam let out earlier. But Dean isn't really in any place to say anything. He wants it just as bad. Dean's gone past a simple want. It's need now, and if Dean doesn't do something about his little problem…

Then Sam touches him and it's all he can do not to close his eyes and tilt his head back and say the first raunchy things that come to his mind. But that doesn't mean that the words aren't there, in his mind on loop, a repeating mantra of _That's it. Touch me, Sammy. Do it. Make me beg. Make me want. Make me scream._ Dean wonders if Sam can read his thoughts or if he said it aloud because Sam pulls him closer and he doesn't look away, and Dean licks his lips, trying not to make it obvious that he's doing it to catch his breath. Sam has the upper hand, but he doesn't know it. That much is obvious by the way that Sam's still sitting here, his finger hooked through Dean's belt loop, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes.

Dean's seen people from this position before. He smiles and brings his hand to his jeans without looking away from Sam. Brushing over his hand on the way, Dean makes easy work of both of them and reaches inside, underneath, and starts stroking lightly. He blinks rapidly a couple of times, the only sign that he's affected at all, and watches Sam biting his lip. God, that's a beautiful sight. Dean wants to pull his own jeans off, pull out his already throbbing dick, grab Sam by the back of his head and get lost, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he wants to know what Sammy's got in him.

+++

Sam's not used to this. Dean's always been the one in charge, especially when it comes to this -- whatever _this_ is. Dean likes to tease, likes to hear Sam beg. And he also likes to be the one controlling what goes on. Now Dean's acting like he's waiting on Sam to make the next move and Sam... _ohmyfuck_!

Sam bites his lip again; even though he knows it's not enough to keep the slight noises from escaping and betraying him, and watches the play of emotions that flash across Dean's face. The hunger he sees in Dean's eyes sends a shiver through him, because he knows that he caused that. _Sam_ is the reason Dean's looking at him like he's a gourmet meal and Dean's starving. Sam's breath catches in his throat and he wonders if Dean realizes that he's the only one who makes Sam feel like this, willing to do anything just to have Dean look at him this way.

Sam reaches for Dean's jeans, brushing up against his arm. Dean takes the hint and moves his hand out of Sam's way. Sam slides Dean's jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock, and this time Sam doesn't even try to stop the appreciative moan that rises from somewhere inside. He's been thinking about this all day, waiting to get his hands -- and his mouth -- on Dean, and just the sight, the heat, the sense of Dean makes him shift in the seat. He slides one of his hands up under the hem of Dean's t-shirt, across his belly, and wraps his other around Dean's cock before raising his eyes back to Dean. Making sure Dean's watching him, making sure Dean knows how much Sam wants this, wants _him_.

Sam leans in, flicks his tongue across the tip of Dean's dick before running it around the head. He slides his lips over Dean's cock, pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside as he sucks. He's not sure if the moan he hears is from Dean or just the echo in his own head (because god, _finally_ , this is what he was craving, like it was a piece of the puzzle that he didn't know was missing) but he can feel Dean's sharp intake of breath, and that's almost enough.

+++

_Yes_. It's the way Sam pulls his lip in between his teeth that pushes Dean over the edge; the noises he makes and the fire that's burning just behind Sam's eyes helps too, and he thinks at this point, he'd do whatever Sam wanted to. He might even let Sam...

And while he's lost in imagining the things that he might allow Sammy to do to him, his jeans and boxers are being pushed down and Sam's hands are all over him. Smooth hands over his stomach and a tight grip on his cock, and then warm, wet heat that's everything and nothing he thought it would be. It's perfect, but it's still teasing, and Dean wants so much more than just a quick lick or Sam's hands on him, and when he presses his tongue flat and pulls, Dean could swear Sam's dragging every last bit of reserve out of him through his cock.

He inhales sharply and his hips jerk forward. It's impossible to stop his own hands from threading through Sam's hair and pulling a little too hard, a little too tight. But Sam doesn't seem to mind, if his loud groan is anything to go by and when Dean looks down -- just seeing that perfect mouth wrapped around his cock is almost too much. He grabs at the hand on his stomach and pushes it down, further, past his cock, past where Sam's glorious mouth is and under. He doesn't have to ask Sam to tug gently because he already knows, he's already doing it.

All Dean really wants is to lose control, to let it all go for one night, and he wonders if Sam feels the same way. Dean's always been the aggressor; he's always been the one pushing buttons and calling the shots, but tonight -- for one night, he thinks he'll let Sam decide. The willpower it takes to pull Sam away from sucking his cock is tremendous, and he whimpers quietly at loss as he pulls Sam to standing and begins to work on his pants.

Sam's pants go quickly, and without much thought, and Dean's really not surprised that Sam's just as hard as he is, just as ready. But he doesn't touch, not yet anyway. He cants his hips forward just slightly, without taking his eyes away from Sam's, and their cocks brush against each other. This isn't completely new, but it's a little more intimate than they're used to, and Sam seems to struggle to keep his eyes open and on Dean. Even mostly clothed… this full body contact, slow kisses, teasing, languid touching... that's not usually what they get up to, but _god willing_ if this keeps going on, Dean's pretty sure he'll be up for more than just quickly fucking Sammy over the edge of the table.

He listens to Sam's breathing change as he wraps his hand around both of their dicks, slowly, _slowly_ pulling up and pushing back down. He wants to drown in the quiet moans that Sam can't control, that he can't control, but he also wants Sam to take the lead. He releases their cocks and shifts their bodies around so that now Dean is resting on the edge of the table and Sam's warm body is pressed up against his.

+++

_Oh god_! Every touch, every taste, is closer to perfect, but Sam's still too far away from what he wants (even though he hasn't quite figured out what exactly that is) and they're both still wearing too many clothes and Dean...

Oh hell, Dean is between Sam and the table, and Sam gets a rush from the realization that this is going quite a bit differently than things usually do between them, and Dean's letting it happen. Sam wants... oh, he flat out fucking _wants_ and he kisses Dean fiercely to keep from spilling out all his secret desires, but he pulls back out of the kiss almost as fast.

"Dean..." The name comes out more as a moan, and they're close enough that they're sharing breaths and Sam can't think of anything more intimate. He reaches down to tug at Dean's shirt. "Clothes, off. Now." His words are stumbling over each other, and he's not even sure which ones make it past his lips and into his babbling as they both get in each other's way trying to get rid of the shirts, the shoes, the jeans, but he's hoping incoherency is a language Dean speaks. "Oh, god, Dean, wanna see you, taste you. Been waiting all day to run my tongue over your skin. Want you."

Sam wants to sink his teeth into his brother's flesh, mark Dean like Dean marked him, tangible proof of the still-nameless thing that's between them. Wants to hear the breathy moans that Dean makes when he comes apart, feed on them, capture them with his tongue and swallow them. Wants to make Dean lose it.

"Wanna fuck you."

+++

They're both naked now, and Dean's leaning against the table again, which he thinks is a good thing because if he hadn't been Sam's words might have knocked him flat. He'd never admit it though. Dean would taunt the devil, given the chance, and the way Sam's looking at him... Dean thinks he just might be playing with fire.

Smirking, Dean leans forward, just a breath away from Sam's lips, and closes his eyes. "Do you?" he whispers as he runs his hands up Sam's arms to his neck. Sam doesn't protest when Dean pulls him closer, forcing Sam's lips to his neck. _C'mon Sammy. Let go_ , Dean thinks as he shifts his hips forward, brushing their cocks together and shuddering and struggling not to just moan. Their bodies are flush in the moment before Sam seems to gain his courage, lips traveling further down. Keeping his hand on the back of Sam's head is the only thing that's grounding Dean to this moment and he pushes forward, arching into Sam's mouth, now licking his nipple.

"C'mon Sammy," he growls as he forces Sam closer -- _Harder_... More -- and pulls one of Sam's hands to his groin, rocking into it slightly before he pushes himself up on the edge of the table. There's a second where Sam looks like he's been winded and Dean uses it to his advantage, hooking one leg around Sam's waist and pulling him closer. They both groan loudly as skin meets skin and Dean reaches for Sam's hand again. He knows what Sam said, what he wants to do... but Dean also knows that Sam won't go very far on his own, so he covers Sam's hand with his own and wraps them around his dick.

He doesn't look away from Sam's glazed-over eyes as he encourages him to stroke, but his lips part as he licks them and it catches Sam's attention. "Like that," he whispers when Sam's so close that their lips brush against each other. _Just like that_. Dean tilts his head back and leans back on his elbows, giving Sam's a full view of his body... his abs clenching in pleasure and his chest heaving with every perfect breath. Dean hears Sam gasp into an "Oh" when he starts to thrust his hips up into Sam's hand, and he wonders what Sammy will sound like when they're actually fucking.

This is perfect, fucking glorious, but Dean wants more. He reaches across the table for the bottle of lube and it's almost impossible to get his mind focused on the task of opening the lid when Sam's fingering his slit after every stroke and running his other hand along Dean's abs. "God," he bites out as the lid finally budges and he sits up to squeeze a good amount in his hands.

He's not too distracted to notice the way that Sam's eyes widen almost comically when he realizes what Dean's doing. The hand that's sliding over his stomach stops and Dean grabs it with a well-lubed hand and slicks it up, but Sam just pauses. His hand is hovering over Dean's body, unsure of what to do next, and with reluctance Dean takes the hand off his cock, squeezes out more lube and applies excessive amounts to his first two fingers with a smirk.

When Sam doesn't move again, Dean's frustration starts to spiral. It's not like Sam doesn't know how this works. They've been together in the past, but Dean's always been the one doing the fucking and Sam looks like he's lost in a sea of conflicts. Without taking his eyes from Sam's, Dean shifts forward on the table and guides Sam's hand to his ass. In a low gravelly voice, Dean pushes him on. "Do it, Sammy. If you want to fuck me, do it."

+++

Sam thinks that maybe permission was all he was waiting for. If the encouraging "C'mon" wasn't enough, there was the point where Dean breathed "like that" and Sam wondered if Dean was asking if he liked it. _Yes, oh my fuck yes_ … he did like the way that Dean gave himself up. Pulled and pushed and persuaded Sam to move on. But in the back of his mind he knew Dean was telling him how to touch him. Exactly how he liked it, exactly what would bring him closer to the edge.

He wanted to crawl on top of Dean when he grabbed for the lube, but his body seemed to lose all sense of how to move, so he stood there dumb-struck, watching his brother slather copious amounts of the slick stuff on his hands. It was warm by the time Dean grabbed his hands, and _touching_ … Now he should be touching, but there's this entire body laid out before him and Sam doesn't even know where to begin.

Dean has something in mind though, obviously, and Sam feels like he's sort of hovering outside of himself for a moment. Dean's pulling his hand down, further… towards… _holyfuck_! Sam's hand is just one tiny fraction of an inch from Dean's hole, and he's wanted to do this more than he cares to admit. Problem is, a small part of his mind is scared shitless. This feels like the point of no return, the line they shouldn't be crossing -- and somehow it also feels like the calm before the storm. All it takes is Dean and a Nike slogan and Sam pushes his hand forward. Stilling his breath and searching for some sign, good or bad, from Dean, he slowly slips his finger past the tightness until it won't go any further.

Dean's eyes are scrunched up, his hands curled around the edge of the table so tightly that they're beginning to turn white, and Sam starts to pull his hand away. It shouldn't look like this, it shouldn't feel like someone's tightening a tourniquet on his heart, it shouldn't feel like the oxygen is slowly being sucked out of the room… And then Dean moans and Sam's hard-pressed not to come right there without even being touched.

It should be like this. He's pressing another finger in, two now, and stopping.

"Jesus, Dean. So hot, so fucking... perfect!" Incoherency takes over again because all Sam can really think about is where his fingers are and where his dick will be shortly, and he has to reach down with his other hand and physically stop himself from losing control before they even get started. He's hoping Dean will give him a sign, something so that Sam knows it's okay.

"Sam." Dean's calm and quiet and Sam's just floored that the bastard can sound like that, completely controlled. It's almost infuriating, but at the same time it's sexy as hell. Just hearing his name dripping with ease and a little bit of sex sends Sam off to thinking about more, further, harder…

+++

"Sammy," Dean whispers through the pain dancing on the edges of his pleasure, finally gaining his attention. "C'mon Sam," he whispers still. "Just go easy, c'mon." He reaches over his head for the lube again and leans up, pulling Sam closer with his legs as he starts to cover Sam's cock with the cool lube. He watches the slide of his palm against/over/on Sam but doesn't chance touching Sam too much because he knows… Dean knows what Sam's like before the moment of 'I'm there… I'm gonna…' He just wants to make sure that this isn't painful, for either of them.

At the same time, he's sort of hoping it hurts… a little at least. He wants to remember it the next day, be reminded when he looks in the mirror or when he sits in that stiff-backed chair in the library. He licks his lips, dry from nearly panting for so long, and looks up into Sam's eyes, still holding on to his reserve and Sam's cock as he waits for Sam's attention. But if he never had it, Dean thinks just the look of bliss on Sam's face could be enough. The way his head is tilted down, where he's just watching his cock sliding in his big hand, with his bottom lip between his teeth, his hair a jumbled mess -- his body all shades of pink and perfect.

_Yes_. Dean thinks he could watch that forever. He can feel the grip growing tighter on his hips, and it's only when Sam looks up at him that he goes for it, one hand pulling Sam down for a searing kiss by the back of his neck while the other guides Sam past the tight ring of muscles.

"Ah," he gasps in pain and closes his eyes. "Easy." Dean tries to make it sound like it _is_ easy, like he's okay, because he wants to do this; he wants Sam to do this, so he sets his jaw and forces Sam further, kissing him harder -- more desperately. This time he's not silencing the moans that seem to just echo in Sam's mouth. "Fuck," he mumbles and bites down on Sam's lip. "Fuck," he breathes as he moves his hand to ensure that Sam stands still.

+++

Sam thinks he should stop, pull out, not go on with this. It seemed like a good idea at the time, particularly when Dean's hand was on his cock and he could watch it disappearing repeatedly. It was fucking unbelievable when Dean pulled him into the hottest kiss he'd ever participated in, but when he heard Dean gasp -- obviously in pain -- he thought the rightness may have disappeared.

That's until Dean starts breaking down.

"Easy." As if anything they got up to could ever be simple and easy. As if Sam could trust his body to go slow when Dean finally let him. As if this would be a painless, perfect encounter.

But 'Fuck' is good. It's even a good idea.

"Fuck," Sam answers, desperately hoping that Dean realizes he's suggesting they get on with it. And he's finally swallowing the moans and breaths that Dean seems to be giving up, almost completely willingly, he thinks, until Dean bites down on his lip. No, this isn't giving up or giving in, this is pushing each other over the edge. Sam welcomes it.

Sam's world has narrowed to this, to him and Dean, to hot and tight and perfect, to _too fucking much_ and _nowhere near enough_ , and even though he wants to stretch this out, to make Dean feel the extreme sense of _right_ and _mine_ that he feels when Dean fucks him, he knows he'll never last. Dean's hand is holding him still and he has this perverse desire to move anyway, just out of defiance. He rests his forehead against Dean's, staying close enough that he can still taste each breath, but he's not sure he can keep up the ragged, semi-rhythm of their kisses. Not the way he's feeling. He wants to be easy, but he's never had the control that Dean does (Sam's not sure how the fuck he manages, because he's about to fall completely apart at just this, the first hint of being inside Dean) and between the teasing that's been going on all day and the fact that Dean is letting him...

Sam tightens his hand on Dean's hip, hard enough that there'll probably be bruises (and won't that be a pretty sight, purplish fingerprints that only the two of them know about, indelible marks of possession, of _this_ ), and pushes forward, burying himself completely inside his brother. In the far corner of his mind he thinks he should feel guilty or concerned that the whimper that comes from Dean is more pain than pleasure, but he doesn't. He likes it.

He's waiting for Dean's breath to stop hitching, allowing him that much, and his eyes follow a bead of sweat running along of Dean's cheek before he catches it with his tongue. He seeks out the warmth of Dean's mouth again, tongues sliding together in a stilted rhythm as Dean arches up against him and they try to work out a matching rhythm further down.

+++

The bruising fingers on his hips ground him, remind him, possess and own him -- but he'd never tell Sam that. He wants a souvenir from this encounter and he knows that he's wincing and he probably looks pained, but hopes that Sam won't back down.

When he finally does push forward, Dean doesn't hold back the stammering murmur that comes out as, "Oooh gah." His breath hitches and his grip tightens on Sam's neck and hip and he's sweating even though the air is on, but Dean knows how good that feeling is -- that first moment of being completely surrounded -- and it helps to divert his attention from the burning pain that's threatening to kill his mood.

He's impressed with this, with Sammy, and starts rocking his hips to let Sam know it's okay. There's a tiny part of him that wants to stop this and go back to their norm, but Sam's tongue sliding against his as he _finally_ starts to let go of his inhibitions stops him. Dean moves the arm that's holding Sam's hip and wraps his legs around his waist, locking them at the ankle and with a deep breath, pulls Sam closer, drives him further in. There's a resounding groan from both of them, loud and obscene and it pushes the rest of Dean's doubts out the window.

He struggles not to shout, 'Oh god fuck,' and instead kisses him harder before pulling away to rest his head on the table. Sam is moving excruciatingly slow, but godYes pressing further and deeper than Dean thinks is possible and he blindly reaches up to touch Sam's neck, chest, abs… any part of his body that Dean can touch without actually making the effort to sit up. He knows that Sam won't get off this way, it's not enough but then Sam changes the angle of his thrusting and Dean swears there are stars behind his eyes. It's white and shocking and, Jesus… if this was what it was like for Sam when they fucked, he'd have to think twice about their positions in this.

"C'mon Sammy. You're not going to break me," Dean mutters through interspersed moans but thinks that somehow Sam probably could break him. "Yeah. That's it." Dean's panting and rocking in counter to Sam's quickening pace. His mouth doesn't stop; somehow Dean manages to be the filthiest talker when he's getting fucked. It's new for both of them but Dean thinks it might just be the fuel that keeps Sam moving. "You've always wanted to do this, haven't you?" he asks through Sam's grunting and repetitive yesyesyes. "You want this. You want me. You wanna see me come? Do you?"

It feels like his whole body is on fire and it starts at his groin. The burning pain doesn't even come close to the feeling of how fucking right this is in a completely wrong way. He's never thought that he would be one to like having cock up his ass, but it's not what he thought it would be, and he's pretty sure that's due to it being Sam's cock. Sam seems to fit perfectly, fill completely and if he keeps hitting that spot, Dean's pretty sure he'll be coming before Sam.

+++

_Oh fuck please, Dean, yes_... The words bubble up inside Sam and mix with the groans and pants that are threatening to spill out, but he thinks the only thing that makes it past his tongue is "Yes". The way Dean's touching him, hard presses of his hand skimming over his body, leaving trails of heat, are torture enough, the way Dean's fingers splay just perfectly here, the way his ring slides there, and he's not sure how Dean's able to keep talking, the most amazing, dirty things falling from his lips in that voice that sounds almost like a growl, a voice that could personify evil and tempt the angels all in the same breath. He wants to close his eyes, to lose himself in the heat and sensation, but he can't look away even though the image in front of him has already been burned in his mind. Sam shifts, speeds up -- _harder, faster, more_ \-- and Dean's words are still filling his ears, taunting him when he can't form anything but grunts and gasps and "Dean", and what he wants most is to make Dean lose that, wants for the words to crumble and fade until the only one left is "Sam".

He slips one of his hands from Dean's hip between the friction of their bodies to wrap it around Dean's cock, sliding his hand to match the rhythm of his thrusts. He likes the way Dean's breath catches, the way the words seem to falter. He likes the way he can feel the tension thrumming through Dean's body -- he can feel the way the muscles in Dean's leg tighten against his own skin -- and he hopes Dean's as close as he is, because he's _right there_.

+++

"More, Sammy," he growls as Sam begins to speed up. "God, more." And there's a moment when he knows that Sam's past the point of no return -- his face scrunches into something between pain and pleasure and that has to be the hottest thing Dean's ever seen, even though he thinks it's possible he's witnessed that look on Sam's face before. Sam's hand is still sliding over his cock furiously fast when Dean feels him come and though it's a little uncomfortable, it's highly erotic and he reaches up to pull Sam into a kiss that turns into more moaning, tongues and panting than kissing could ever be.

Dean doesn't let go of Sam's neck, but snarls commands into his mouth instead. "Harder, yes. More." And Sam does just that. His grip tightens on Dean's cock and Dean wants to scream in pleasure, but then Sam's moving faster and Dean loses it. "Yes, Sammy, oh god, yes!" The only thing Dean can think is _Sam_ and he's gone just seconds after him, warm and hot and that sort of aching, throbbing feeling is finally set free. He's not as loud or obscene as he was during the fucking. When he comes, it's just, "Sam." It's whispered and quiet and intense and Dean wonders if he's even said it aloud.

He doesn't even realize his eyes are shut until he opens them and Sam's looking down on him with a smile that he's only seen once. That smile that Sam gave him when they were hunting that Striga. That smile that just fucking melts Dean, and he just shakes his head and gives Sam's ass a smack. "Oh god, kill me now." But the returning smile sort of takes away from the intended impact.

+++

Sam has a hard time keeping the smugness out of his eyes, but he manages. He knows Dean wouldn't appreciate it, and he's too satiated to start friction between the two of them. He pulls out slowly and reaches for the t-shirt that ended up flung over the back of the chair to wipe up with. They're both sticky with sweat and come, and a shower would be heaven, but right now he doesn't think his legs would support him that long. Sam leans down to kiss Dean, long and slow and drawn out, a thank you of sorts, something he'd never put into words - something Dean would never let him put into words - and then helps Dean up off the table. The two of them stumble the couple feet to the bed and collapse on top of the cool covers. Dean's sprawled out over more than his own share of the bed, but Sam doesn't really mind. He's rather gotten used to it, the way Dean takes up so much space -- physically and in his life in general.

"So, um, Dean..." Sam starts to say.

Dean's eyes are already closed. "Sam, whatever you're going to say, don't. Sleep. Then food. Then the hunt." He pats the bed without opening his eyes. "Now lay down."

He does so without argument or complaint. He'd never win anyway, Dean's always right.


End file.
